My peripatetic spell had lasted about six weeks, when I formed the acquaintance of the editor of the _Lily of the Valley_, who permitted me to mope in his office now and then, and soothed my literary inflammation by allowing me to write “puffs” for the village milliner. While looking over some old magazines in the _Lily_ office one day, I found in an ancient British periodical a raking article upon American literature, wherein the critic affirmed that all our writers were but weak imitators of English authors, and that such a thing as a Distinctly American Poem, _sui generis_, had not yet been produced. [Illustration: “IN THE SOLITUDE OF MY ROOM, THAT NIGHT, I WOOED THE ABORIGINAL MUSE.”] This radical sneer at the United States of America fired my Yankee blood, and I vowed within myself to write a poem, not only distinctively American, but of such a character that only America could have produced it. In the solitude of my room, that night, I wooed the aboriginal muse, and two days thereafter the _Lily of the Valley_ contained my distinctive American poem of “THE AMERICAN TRAVELLER.” To Lake Aghmoogenegamook, All in the State of Maine, A man from Wittequergaugaum came One evening in the rain. “I am a traveller,” said he, “Just started on a tour, And go to Nomjamskillicook To-morrow morn at four.” He took a tavern bed that night, And with the morrow’s sun, By way of Sekledobskus went, With carpet-bag and gun. A week passed on; and next we find Our native tourist come, To that sequestered village called Genasagarnagum. From thence he went to Absequoit, And there—quite tired of Maine— He sought the mountains of Vermont, Upon a railroad train. Dog Hollow, in the Green Mount State, Was his first stopping-place, And then Skunk’s Misery displayed Its sweetness and its grace. By easy stages then he went To visit Devil’s Den; And Scrabble Hollow, by the way Did come within his ken. Then, _viâ_ Nine Holes and Goose Green, He travelled through the State, And to Virginia, finally, Was guided by his fate. Within the Old Dominion’s bounds, He wandered up and down, To-day, at Buzzard Roost ensconced, To-morrow at Hell Town.